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Whispers and Screams
Whispers and Screams is a Short Story written by BZPower and C.I.R.C.L.E. member Cap'n K focusing on the creation of the Makers. Whispers and Screams The Great Being frowned down at his creations. “What troubles you, father?” said his companion from the doorway. Inultio looked up from the steadily growing body that lay on the iron table. “It’s nothing, Archivus. Return to your studies.” “But father, this is part of my studies. Soon, this endeavor will be in all the history books.” “No. If this project does not succeed, I will not go down as a failure. Now return to your chambers.” “Yes, father,” Archivus replied. He sighed lightly and exited the room, leaving Inultio to brood by himself. Biological beings can create life, thought Inultio, taking a seat by the iron table. So then why can that seed not be transferred to our creations? The creation of new beings was once thought a miracle. The miracle of life. What a joke, thought Inultio. We have the power to create beings of our own... at our very whim! We are makers. We are the gods. Inultio turned to the iron table once again, activating the stream of oxygen through his mask. Breathing with the thing activated could be dangerous. Through labored breaths, the Great Being spoke. “Oonava, rise. Rise, and create.” “...really quite simple. It’s just so... so... old. But not all the tablets have been lost. The legends haven’t been forgotten yet!” The chief archivist had heard quite enough. “Baseless claims and rumors are hardly enough to...” “They’re not baseless!” interrupted the Matoran with the purple Komau. Origu, the chief archivist thought his name was. Just some subordinate archivist who had grown overzealous after finding some old myth tablet. Sure, the myth of the Makers was intriguing. A piece of Matoran history and culture, one forgotten over the ages. But the myth that some ancient “journal” left behind by an actual Great Being were totally false. “There’s the Legend of the Makers, for starters, which proves that they exist at least in myth. And then there are the journals of...” “Of the Great Beings themselves, I know. But look, that’s just a rumor. I’ve had a dozen Matoran come to ask me if I could assign them this as a major project, and I’ve turned everyone but the first researcher down. What makes you think that you’re any more special?” The Matoran glared at the chief archivist, the glare of an amateur with fire in his heart, fire of the hint of a new discovery, and the chief saw himself in that Matoran’s bright eyes. “I know I can find something. I can dig deep enough, and maybe...” “Do yourself a favor, Origu,” said the chief. “‘Origou,’ actually. Like, ‘au,’ not, ‘ooh.’” “Origou, then. Do yourself a favor, and look for something more concrete. I can tell that you want to learn. That’s why I selected you. But unless you’re going on this expedition as a search for the history of an old myth, I can’t give you the permission.” “Then I’ll do that.” “Do what?” “Just like you said,” the Matoran retorted, growing bolder in his tone. “I’ll research this ancient... ‘myth.’ And you won’t be disappointed!” The chief sighed. He supposed that learning came from experience, sometimes, and maybe giving the Matoran a month, two months tops, would teach the amateur a lesson. “Go for it,” he said, gesturing out the door. “But just remember what I told you, Origou.” “Of course! Thank you!” Origou bowed a bit, turned to quickly exit the room, and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled upright again and turned with quite the embarrassed look on his face. “Sorry! ...I mean, I’ll do all I can to prove that the Makers exist... in myth, I mean!” And with that, the Matoran was gone. “Poor kid,” the chief muttered, stifling a chuckle. “...and so Oonava, The Maker, rose from the shadows carrying with him new life...” Oonava trailed off, his eyes turning black. “Good,” remarked Inultio, jotting down on his note tablet. “Vocal pattern intact.” “You might want to work on more important things, Inultio,” said Castius. Inultio looked up from the table. “I didn’t see you there, Castius. How long have you been watching?” “Long enough,” he said. “Do us all a favor, Inultio, and hand this project over to me. Creating a race of self-sustaining nanobots might turn out too difficult for you after all. With all due respect. I’m just suggesting that a professional...” “I’m a professional,” Inultio snapped. “The same caliber as you, at least.” “I’m not insulting your ability, brother.” “Well, that’s what it seems like, brother. I can handle this project alone.” “Alone with your little totem, you mean?” “That has nothing to do with this. I may have used it before, but this is all me. The Makers will be hailed as one of the greatest steps to a greater future, and I will be the sole pioneer. I’m not bringing magic into this.” “So that’s what you think this all is? Magic? Magic and technology, totally separate. Think about what you’re saying. Then come to your senses. Superstitions aren’t healthy.” And with that, Castius stood to leave the chamber. “It’s not a... it’s not a superstition! It’s...” Inultio realized it was useless to debate when Castius left the room. He turned back to his project, and activated his oxygen mask.” “Oonava, wake.” Origou knew the Legend of the Makers well. In fact, he had it memorized. :And so, with all their powers, the Great Beings created a race of deities to rule alongside the Great Spirit. These they called the Makers, powerful beings capable of creating life itself. The Great Spirit himself gave them all names — ''"The Ancient One", [[Artakha (Being)|''"The Creator"]], [[Karzahni (Being)|"The Corrector"]], [[Vakula|"The Brave"]], [[Makaavara|"The Maelström"]], [[Stor|"The Northern Wind"]], and many others. The Great Beings blessed these creators with masks of great power so that they could reign over their world. :But when the Creator was given a mask far more powerful than the masks of the others, they rose in rebellion. The Corrector challenged his brother to a fight. He lost this fight and was condemned to the very depths of the universe to punish Matoran who did not work. :Many others joined after this to create a fellowship, an organization that strived to become greater creators than the brother who had been blessed by the Great Beings. And so the Fellowship of the Makers was created, built upon spirits wrought of iron and souls built with gold. :The Fellowship of the Makers unlocked the secrets of their creator, and with it created masks to satisfy their own desires, masks far more powerful than the mask granted to the Creator. :What the Brave desired more than all was insurmountable power. And so he created a Mask of Strength which could topple the Great Spirit himself in a single blow. :What the Maelstrom desired more than all was the power of death, the ability to destroy any enemy who happened upon him. And so he created a powerful Mask of Death, capable of killing anything that opposed him. :What the Northern Wind desired more than all was fame and admiration from all he met. He created a Mask of Love, making all who met him impossibly dedicated to all he did and with all he was. :What the Ancient One desired more than all was to live forever, and so he created a Mask of Immortality, allowing him to live forever and pass the bonds of time. :What the Makers did not understand was that the blessings they granted upon themselves came with a price. One by one they fell, prisoners to their own impossible power. :The Brave was not satisfied by his power of strength. He could no longer create because all he touched crumbled beneath his power. He sealed himself in a tomb with a rock too heavy for even himself to lift. :The Maelstrom could bring easy death upon all his enemies, but wearing the mask came with a price. He was condemned to live only half a life, constantly at the brink of death and tormented by the souls that he claimed. The Maelstrom sealed himself in a tomb which was filled with noise so loud that he could not hear the cries of the thousands he had killed. :The Northern Wind was driven to madness by the dedication others showed to him, and so he sealed himself in a hidden tomb where nobody dwelled and he was certain nobody could discover. :And the Ancient One’s power came with a curse as well. Because he could not die, he could also not truly live. His body and spirit were severed from one another, and he was frozen in time, incapable of creating or learning. And so he hid in a tomb deep underground where nobody would know his guilt. :And so the Makers were doomed to sleep forever, cursed by their own desires. All who Origou knew the end of the legend best of all, because that is where it ended. In mid-sentence, carved into a wall but the rest faded by time. What was the rest of the legend, and why had it been forgotten? Origou knew that the answers laid somewhere. And he would find them, even if that meant traveling to the depths of the universe, even if it meant waking the Makers themselves! “Oonava, arise and meet your creator!” shouted Inultio with all the conviction he had, raising his arms dramatically. The being’s eyes opened. Blazing yellow, and buried beneath the muddy red fluid that kept him alive. The thing looked disgusting, but perhaps ugliness was the price to pay if one wished to create life. “Observe the being’s organic parts,” Inultio declared to the committee. “See that it is more than just a robot, and that is what gives it the drive to create!” The crowd stared, as if in some kind of shock. The being called Oonava was a spectacular sight to behold. It towered three times higher than a Great Being could stand, and was covered in black, unnatural carapaces that made it resemble some kind of robot thrashed together by the hides of giant, prehistoric beetles. Translucent tubes wrapped its' body, the muddy fluid running through them. Its' hands were like the claws of a crab, but composed of seven slender fingers each, wrapped around each other to form bulbous fists. Most remarkably, its' face was little more than that of a shriveled child’s, its' yellow eyes blazing through the black pits. A member of the crowd raised his hand, the rest apparently too shocked by the majestic sight to say anything. “Yes,” Inultio said, breaking the awful silence. “Yes, you, in the front.” The Great Being spoke up. “What exactly was used to create...” From sound-making vocal receptors, speakers intertwined with sinewy cords, the immense creation spoke for the first time since its' remodeling. “WHY.” The word did not emerge from the thing’s mouth, but instead from somewhere below the clear carapace which secured the head and the fluids it breathed. The Great Being in the crowd fell silent. Oonava spoke again. “WHY.” “I can assure you,” said Inultio, “this hasn’t happened...” “IF I WAS MADE... TO CREATE... WHY DO I... ONLY HAVE THE... DESIRE TO DESTROY?” Oonava stood, severing the tubes which kept it wired to a throne forged of iron. Red fluid which kept its' brain running washed over the stage, pouring into the crowd like waves of blood. The smell of rotting fish oils filled the auditorium, and the torches which lit the room turned a deep crimson on contact with the fumes the fluid emitted. Oonava’s claw opened, revealing the seven fingers and a gaping hole within the palm, lined with tiny tools and appendages. They all began to spin wildly, and at full force, Oonava delivered a blow which tore through Inultio’s face. “I AM... A CREATOR... I MUST... DESTROY... I AM... YOUR NEW GOD.” With horrific buzzes and cracks, the organic robot lifted a colossal leg which ended in a flat foot and stepped over the body of Inultio. It stomped down, making the room boom with sound. All this creation. For what? It sickened Oonava. There was no reason to what they built. They built without purpose. Oonava had to end it all, end it all before... Before Oonava could step into the frenzied crowd, its' eyes turned from bright yellow to nothing, like flames extinguished. The great automaton fell forwards, crushing those who could not escape it in time. The room was silent. Smelling like fish and glowing red, the crowd did not speak. They could only stare in horror at the thing made to create. The word traveled quickly through Metru Nui. Usually, a single missing archivist wasn’t anything important. But this was something that the chief archivist feared would go down in history. The last report of Origou was that he left the Metru for Po-Metru, where he purchased a canoe and set off. And all across Onu-Metru, he had spread the word. By word of mouth, his legend had spread through all six districts and the story of Origou was soon buzzing all over the city. In Ga-Metru, one might hear students discussing between classes the archivist who wanted to accomplish more than was expected of him. In Ta-Metru, one might hear over the sounds of masks being forged that a Matoran was traveling to other places in the universe, never before explored by a Metrunuian. In Ko-Metru, if one listened hard enough, they might hear whispers between scholars that they were rooting for Origou or Origu or whatever his name was to return with pioneering stories that would make Matoran history. “Madness,” the chief archivist said. “One ambitious newbie and all of a sudden the Archives and Onu-Metru are a mockery!” “So what do you want me to do about it?” Onepu stuttered. “Get back to work!” he barked. “And don’t leave the island for some far-fetched reason.” “Yes, sir!” Onepu exclaimed. If one was to find a chamber where nobody would think to look, where would they go? As far south as possible? The center of the universe? And where was the heaviest boulder known to the universe? Would the crafters of weapons on Xia know? And what could produce the loudest sound heard to Matoran? The questions were endless, but Origou knew that he could not stop now. The quest had only just begun. Characters *Inultio *Archivus *Oonava *Origou *Castius *Mata Nui (Not Mentioned By Name) *Artakha (Not Mentioned By Name) *Karzahni (Not Mentioned By Name) *Vakula (Not Mentioned By Name) *Makaavara (Not Mentioned By Name) *Stor (Not Mentioned By Name) *Onepu External Links *Whispers and Screams Category:Short Stories Category:Cap'n K